


Grand Jeté

by MenaceAnon



Series: Malagueña [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (only a little but more later don't worry), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pre-Relationship, dance au, what do you take me for, yes there's pole dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 17:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10443651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: He has a barre. He also has a pole. He’s taken some lessons, and probably could have done this professionally, could have been great, but he’s not the type of person who thinks there’s world-shaping power in dance. It’s politics, for him.Or: In which Alexander Hamilton has a secret.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings at the End**
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr. Dedicated to the dance AU anon, without whom this would never have been written.
> 
> I'll be posting more of this series here, soon, but you can read more RIGHT NOW! by following me on tumblr at [MenaceAnon](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com/tagged/dance-au)
> 
> There's l o t s of [other fic](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic) there too, so come say hi!

Alex has a small studio in his home.

He has a barre. He also has a pole. He’s taken some lessons, and probably could have done this professionally, could have been great, but he’s not the type of person who thinks there’s world-shaping power in dance. It’s politics, for him.

Still, after a long day metaphorically pummeling and being pummeled by Thomas Jefferson and his cronies, there’s nothing like it: leaping, bowing, spinning. _Assume the position. One-two-three, two-two-three._

If he’s in the mood to bruise, he uses the pole. Skin on metal, thighs tight and back arched, sweat-drenched: his body forms a comma, and his brain takes a pause.

It’s better when he can get home. When he can’t, his only outlet is the office gym, treadmills and weights, a shower with no water pressure.

(Jefferson sees him in the locker room, tugging on a t-shirt, and stops in his tracks. Hamilton follows his eyes down to his legs below the short towel: lean, limber muscle – and broad patches of deep black and blue. He tugs on his sweatpants and grabs his car keys.

“Get in a fight with some stairs?” Jefferson asks. There’s an odd quality to his voice.

“Tasteful, Jefferson,” he snaps, and leaves. He could swear the man’s eyes follow him around the office for days, though.)

Time passes. Work picks up. He stays late, and later, and hasn’t had _time_ in over a week, so now it’s 1 AM and he’s moving treadmills, clearing space.

Syncing his phone to the speakers.

Stretching.

This is an old routine, one he knows well and can perform with ease: a little ballet, a little everything else. Quick, relentless, hungry. A favorite. Particularly ferocious tonight, captive frustration running through him like a livewire: a perfectly-executed _grand jeté_ , hanging weightless in the air, into a turn, into a loping _chasse_ , and then he’s down on one knee, body stretched out, twisting, something all his own, and there’s Jefferson, standing over him.

Hamilton freezes. Panting, drenched. The music dashes to an end without him, heedless. He looks up, and Jefferson’s eyes are wide and dark, his mouth slightly open. There’s something there like awe. And Hamilton stands. Kills the music as it starts up the next song. Gathers his things, and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Jefferson makes a very oblique, but obviously very gross, domestic violence joke. Fuck that guy.


End file.
